


Waxing Black

by squiddlesandsopor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddlesandsopor/pseuds/squiddlesandsopor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His claw slips under the stitch at the corner of your mouth and he uses it to tug you forward into a kiss. He’s being gentle today, nibbling at your lips rather than biting. You drape one long-fingered hand around the nape of his neck, weaving your fingers into his tangled hair. <br/>This is a Makaracest smut fic I did for getting 69 followers on Tumblr. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waxing Black

His claw slips under the stitch at the corner of your mouth and he uses it to tug you forward into a kiss. He’s being gentle today, nibbling at your lips rather than biting. You drape one long-fingered hand around the nape of his neck, weaving your fingers into his tangled hair. With your other hand you reach up to thumb the base of his horn the way you know he likes it, the way you like it. He purrs deep in the back of his throat, it’s almost a growl, and it sends an electric jolt of desire through your digestive sack before it pools into a liquid heat lower. He pushes you back far enough to yank your shirt off. Your stitched lips turn up a little more at his impatience. You don’t mind though, not really.

“Motherfucker what are you all smiling about?” His voice is soft but his claws dig a counterpoint into your shoulders.

Your skin dimples briefly before he pierces it. You wonder how someone dead can bleed but it’s only a passing thought and of no real matter. You hook your thumbs into your shorts and yank them down. You leave your leggings on for the moment as you trail your gloved fingers up your dancestors thorax. You rub your thumbs over the slightly puckering nubs of his nipples through the fabric of his shirt and note with some smugness the way his breath hitches.

He releases you to remove the article of clothing in one long fluid motion that has you leering at the ripple of his developing muscles. In a couple sweeps they’ll be more defined, like yours, and a bit longer after that he’ll get larger. The possibilities give you something to think about while you’re on your own. For now though you reach out and scrape your claws down his sides. Through your gloves they can’t do any real damage but the threat of it is enough to send a shiver of longing through him.

“Always motherfuckin teasing me ain’t you?” As usual his temper is getting the best of him; you knew he has a hard time controlling himself without the calming effects of sopor.

“I AIN’T NO WIGGLER.”

It always amuses you when he starts yelling. You decide to humour him though, despite how mirthful you find his annoyance when he isn’t getting his way. Slowly you ease off the baggy pants he wears, tossing them gently to the side. His bulge is mostly unsheathed and you stroke a finger from about its midpoint to the tip. You bring the digit up to your lips and stroke the slick lubricant on them. His gaze is sharp and he lowers himself slowly onto a concupiscent couch as he watches you paint your lips with your shared hue. It seems funny to you that you all up and didn’t notice the couch before. You put it down to another fucking miracle though. He reaches up to grab your arm and hauls you down between his legs. His lips press against yours again and his tongue darts out to lap his own genetic material off your face. He tongues at your stitches, frustration evident by the look on his face.

You pull back with a little smile. As much as you can’t help but indulge your dancestor you don’t really want to have to deal with fixing your mouth up if he tears out the stitches again. To distract him you slide your leggings off. He smirks at you and grasps your bulge near its base. Without breaking eye contact he slowly strokes the length of it. He uses just enough pressure to get you quivering. You spread your legs as much as you can while staying between his and brush a fingertip against your nook. Before you can apply any pressure your hand is yanked away by the wrist.

“Ah-ah brother. You don’t get to be having all the motherfuckin’ fun.”  His tone is chiding but there’s a malicious gleam in his eyes.

Your free hand balls into a loose fist and you place it over your chest, rotating it to sign “sorry”. He continues to watch you with narrowed eyes but finally he hums and directs your hand toward his own nook. With one last squeeze he releases you. He looks at you expectantly, his hand still and loosely curled around your bulge. When you brush your fingertip against his nook his grip tightens. So that’s how he’s going to play it. You slip the tip of your index finger inside him, smiling at his faint wince. It would have been easier on him if you’d removed your gloves first. However, he doesn’t complain and as you ease the rest of your finger into his tight opening he gives your bulge a languid stroke.

“That’s better motherfucker,” he grins crookedly at you as you stroke your finger along his inner walls, “That’s all motherfuckin’ kinds of mirthful.”

His words cut off into a groan as you work a second finger into his nook. His hips arch against your hand, forcing your fingers in deeper. His own fingers have stilled on your bulge again and you growl softly in frustration. You try to rock your hips into his hand but as if to spite you he simply lets go. You scowl at him, wide-eyed with rage. You can tell he’s doing it on purpose and you want to rip that smug grin off his face. You slip your fingers out of his nook and miracle of all miracles he doesn’t protest. He merely observes as you peel your soiled gloves off. You lay your hands to rest on either side of his face as you pull yourself up to straddle his narrow hips.

The grin slips from his face as your bulges twine together. His head lolls back exposing a throat you would love to sink your fangs into. You settle for digging your claws into the fabric of the couch and rolling your hips up in a slow grind that has you stifling a moan.  A few more hip rotations have your dancestor panting beneath you, eyes closed with his claws digging furrows into your hips. You slow a little and his eyes snap open, glaring into your cloudy white orbs. He uses his grip on your hips to push you back enough to separate your bulges; his grip changes and he lifts you slightly. Obliging him you rise a little higher on your knees. He tugs you forward again and you can feel his bulge probing at the outer rim of your nook.

The tip of it slides in and you fight to hold steady. He guides you down and you willingly impale yourself on his bulge. When you come to rest with your thighs pressed out around his bony hips you let out a shaky breath. He’s not quite as large as you yet but he’s still a lot to take, especially with no more preparation than your combined genetic material. However, you love the way his bulge feels when it’s fully sheathed in your slick nook. You would praise the Mirthful Messiahs if you had a tongue to speak with. To scream with. As it is you inhale sharply through your nose and let out a low moan in the back of your throat.

His face is split by a devilish grin and his eyes are half-glazed with lust. He noses against your collarbone, sucking and nipping at random intervals. There is a small amount of friction from the way his bulge writhes inside you but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. You rise up higher on your knees, using your grip on the couch for balance, and then smoothly slide back down. He growls against your throat and jerks his hips up to meet you. You both groan at the sensation and pick up the pace, pulling away and then thrusting back together with only the soft sounds of damp flesh slapping together and breathy moans to accompany your performance. It’s the most beautiful sound track you could imagine.

Your bulge, neglected, twines against itself. Before you can reach down to do something about it your dancestor does instead. Those long fingers stroke their way up and down its length and you arch back, overstimulated. Gamzee takes that moment as an invitation to grip the hair at the nape of your neck and pull you forward. You wrap your hands tightly around his horns as his fangs sink into the flesh at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Your whole body clenches and you let out a hoarse cry that is only somewhat muffled by your stitched lips. He strokes your bulge through your release, his hand and thorax coated in the slick fluid by the time you finish. With the hand still wrapped in your hair he guides your lips to his as he continues to lightly pump his hips. You shiver slightly, exhausted, but reach out to stroke the ridges of his grub scars with one hand. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as you press down and his thrusts get a little harder, a little more erratic. You roll your hips down onto his and scrape a claw along one of the sensitive ridges. Blood wells to the surface and with a throaty moan he releases inside you and over the couch.

You slump over him, breathing deeply through your nose. He lays beneath you, limp and sated. With a final deep breath you rise up onto your knees ignoring the sound of his bulge slipping wetly out of your nook. From there you back off the couch until you’re standing on the ground about a foot away from it. You reach up to stroke a finger along the lines of your stitches. You tore them a little with that final scream, your jaw attempting to open despite your best efforts, but they don’t seem too bad. Nodding to yourself you grab and start tugging on your leggings. Your dancestor watches you from the couch with half-lidded eyes. You wrinkle your nose in slight disgust at the thought of sitting there covered in your combined genetic material. Unhurriedly you gather up the rest of your clothing and pull it, except for your gloves which need to be washed. Or perhaps burned.

At some point Gamzee had gotten off the couch and mostly wiped himself clean with his shirt. He was drawing on his pants as you considered the cleansing properties of fire. Despite your musings you are still aware of him sauntering over to you. You gaze at him expressionlessly, not sure what to expect. His fingers catch your chin and he presses his lips to yours soft as can be. He pulls away with a little smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

“Until next time motherfucker.” He says with a chuckle.

You sketch a sarcastic bow and then turn and walk away. You don’t look back as the scenery of the dream bubble melts around you and changes. You’ll be seeing him again soon. Real motherfuckin’ soon.


End file.
